Words
Are they infinite?
Regardless, of whether they are or not, is there enough of them to convey all emotion and feelings?
All sorrows?
All levels of joy and ecstasy?
I wish I knew every word. (I’m not a wordsmith by any stretch of the imagination.)
I wish I could describe all things with the greatest detail and with precise succinctness.
Or with vague generalities: words upon words, superfluous, yet precious.
Can you describe a mountain? Its clefts and shrubs? nooks and crannies?
A river and its translucent ripples that shimmer and the surface that sways like the boughs on its borders.
Can you describe a betrayal without tears?
Anger, without fiery eyes and veins bulging red with blood and all manner of angst and evil?
I wish I was an author.
An author is a painter.
After all do not they both use pens to convey a message?
Don’t they both use a medium? One of paper, the other of canvas.
One draws a circle the other writes ‘a circle’.
Come to think of it, is not the author far more superior?
The painter draws a ball with the greatest detail. He shades around the perimeter he causes it to appear as if it may bounce off the page if the aesthete does not hold the painting carefully.
But it's still a circle.
An author merely need to write ‘sphere’ and 2D transforms into 3D.
Life is breathed into Adam and he becomes a living and active being.
perhaps I’m reading into it too deeply.
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